I know what I look like.
A fourth car has slowed down, it’s a Lexus this time. A blonde driver with dark red lipstick stares through the rain spotted window. They don’t get a lot of pedestrians here.
I pull out my phone and try the power button again, but the screen is remorselessly black beneath the fissured glass.
There’s another road sign ahead and I legitimately pray, “God, please let it be familiar. Amen.”
Every street in this place seems to be named after a tree – and Lyla’s address, typed carefully into my phone last night, wasn’t a tree street. I remember that much at least.
It’s possible that the bus driver didn’t understand me. Or that he nodded so I’d leave him alone. I hadn’t considered that at the time. But now, after thirty-five minutes of walking it seems possible. This could be the wrong neighborhood, the wrong part of the city.
And it’s my city. Or at least it used to be. But who memorizes every street – even in in the place where they were born?
I come to yet another stone pathway leading up to a house. I want to knock – to ask to use their phone. But I know what they’d see – scam, crazy, homeless, druggie…
It’s what I’d think. So I keep walking.
The next street is “Persimmon Lane.”
Is that a tree? Maybe I’m getting closer.
Just passing three more houses feels like it takes hours. The first one has fountain you could park a car in, the second one has a turret, and the third has a hedge so high that all I see is the tile roof.
The rain is down to a trickle, but it’s getting a late.
Another street sign – “Persimmon Circle.” It probably is a damned tree.
Finally, there’s another stone path to a door, another temptation. I stop. The real clincher is a need to use the bathroom.
Could I offer them twenty dollars cash to use their phone? Money surely would convince them I’m not one of those people…
Those people?
I push my hair out of my face and march up the sidewalk, my roller bag banging on the pavers behind me. There’s both a lion doorknocker and a doorbell. I go for the doorbell.
It takes a long time for the door to open
A graying man in a button down and khaki’s gives me the exact look I was expecting. Suspicion and annoyance behind five-hundred-dollar glasses.
Yep, I’m one of those people.
“Hi,” I say, and tell myself to smile. “My name is Andrea Mason. I’m sorry to bother you but I’m really lost and on foot and I dropped my phone so I wondered if you might be able to help me.” The words are fast and breathless, I doubt they help my cause.
He considers, then sighs. “Is there someone I can call for you?”
“Yes,” I said. “That would be great.” I give him Lyla’s name and number. I’m hoping he’ll invite me in, that I could get brave enough to ask to use the bathroom, but he steps back from the door and removes his phone from his pocket.
“Wait here.” He shuts the door.
I close my eyes and pray she answers, pray I haven’t misremembered the number.
I’ve counted to 227 when the door opens again, wider this time. There’s a polite smile now. “Come in. You’re friend lives on the other side of the hill. She said she’ll be here in a few minutes.”
The magic of connections. “Thank you. I don’t suppose I could use your powder room?”
There’s a moment of silence, but apparently courtesy wins out. He points down a marble tiled hallway. “Third door.”
I leave my bag and hurry to the bathroom. I’m greeted by copper fixtures and dizzying wallpaper. It’s peacock print, I dimly realize as I make quick use of the facilities. Birds and trees – makes a certain sense.
When I return I notice my battered luggage has been scooted closer to the wall. The man points to the duct tape repairs. “That brand has a lifetime warranty you know,” he says as if lecturing a child. “You should get it taken care of.”
“Yes, I should,” I say. “It just happened.”
“Ah,” he says with arched brows. My excuse isn’t quite enough.
“Could happen to anyone,” I add.
“Of course,” he says, waving a hand.
The condescension has me gritting my teeth, but I say, “Thank you for your help.”
He nods. He doesn’t say, “You’re welcome.”
I grab the handle of my luggage. “I’ll just wait for her outside.”
“It’s raining,” he points out.
“Don’t I know it,” I try to make it a joke and fail.
He clears his throat and steps forward to open the door. I step back out into the mist. I turn to thank him but the heavy door is already swinging shut.
My bag clunks over the flagstones behind me as I drag it back out to the road. I’ve counted to 379 when I see Lyla’s car.
I’m surrounded by warm leather and the squeak of wipers when she says. “I’m surprised he didn’t just call the cops.”
“Me too,” I say. “Though even that would have helped.”
She shakes her head and chuckles. “You weren’t that desperate.”
Yes, I was. Clearly, I’m one of those people.
Jenel Alan 